The Library at Shipwreck Cove
by Nytd
Summary: A place to stow daring drabbles, whimsical one-shots, and other good piratey stuff. OST spoiler warnings for chapter 17 onward!
1. An Unexpected Visit

Drabble in response to the prompt 'misunderstanding' by ChaosandMayhem over at the Broken Compass.

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**An Unexpected Visit ~*~**

**--**

Jack stood with his hand on the cabin door- his mouth and said door hanging open as he stared in horror at the comely blonde who stood on the other side.

"G...Giselle...what are you doing here?" he asked with an uneasy smile as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him quickly.

Giselle frowned. "You said eight o'clock, Jack," she pouted.

"That I did, love," Jack said, escorting her quickly to the gangplank. "Eight o' clock _Wednesday_ night."

"It _is_ Wednesday night," she insisted, confused.

"No, it's Tue..." Jack started as the red head appeared from the cabin before he could ditch the blonde,"....too late."

_SMACK!_


	2. A Rose by Any Other Name

Response to the prompt 'booty' over at the fun-filled Broken Compass forum. :)

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**A Rose by Any Other Name ~*~**

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"Gentlemen," Jack said, sauntering across the deck to address the crew. "I believe it is finally time."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow at his captain, speaking for the men. "Time, sir? And what might yeh be referring to?"

Jack took on an informative attitude. "I am referring to the fact that I have considered all current options, and think it is high time that as men of fate and fortune, we took action to augment our pecuniary resources...to endeavor to increase our _embarras de richesses_, as it were," he said confidently.

Blank looks met him from across the sea of faces on deck.

"Time to plunder a ship and get us some booty," Gibbs whispered in an undertone to them, and a cheer of enthusiastic approval went up across the deck.

"AYE!"

"I thought you gents'd say that," Jack said with sly grin, heading off to the quartedeck.


	3. To Snare a Swann

First thought that popped into my head at the prompt 'wait'. A Barbossabeth moment believe it or not! Bit more'n a drabble.

**To Snare a Swann ~*~**

**--**

Barbossa watched her as she clung to his arm, allowing himself the tiniest of wicked, self-satisfied smiles at the thought of how her guard had dropped momentarily, revealing a flash of undeniable longing.

He'd begun to suspect such feelings arising within her halfway through their voyage to Singapore, after their awkward truce, and throughout what had evolved into and beyond the relationship of a mentor and disciple.

In swordplay meant for practice and for breaking the monotony of the journey, he'd driven her to her knees, disarmed, and offering her his hand, he pulled her to her feet and closer. He noted instantly how her hand lingered on his arm this time, how her breath had caught, and her eyes had met his unguarded just long enough for him to know.

If he'd played the odds a day or so earlier, there was a good chance he'd have had her by now, but age and experience had told him to wait, to draw her in to deeper waters until her acquiescence became an inevitability, and now as her eyes met his and she made no move to pull away, he knew he had her.

And how he'd wanted her, headstrong but naïve young thing that she was. As he drew her closer, unresisting this time, her eyes closed and her lips parted as he claimed the first kiss just a bit roughly, and he knew a little of his less than virtuous patience had ensured his slow and steady efforts at seduction were about to pay off.


	4. A Single Shot

Response to the prompt 'justice' by damsel-in-stress at the Broken Compass Forum

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**A Single Shot ~*~**

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Jack stared through the dissipating smoke from his pistol, watching grimly as his nemesis took his first and last living breath in ten years, and then collapsed to lie still.

He stood over the corpse, now wholly dead, watching the apple roll from limp fingers.

An act of long-awaited violence made them even; one that, had it been carried out with a noose and in a uniform, would have been termed justice.

In his world it was called revenge, and few pirates would care if it was just.

Jack put the spent pistol away, still contemplative. If justice was righteous, and revenge was sweet...then why did he still feel so hollow?


	5. Taking the Good with the Bad

**Taking the Good with the Bad: A Conversation. ~*~**

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"Did you hear?" Murtogg asked his companion, after trying to stifle yet another yawn as their watch wore on endlessly.

"Hear what?" Mullroy asked with halfhearted interest.

"About Jack Sparrow."

"The pirate?" Mullroy asked.

"Yeah. Seems he sacked Nassau port last week," Murtogg replied.

"You mean his crew sacked Nassau port," Mullroy corrected him.

Murtogg shook his head. "No, I mean Jack Sparrow sacked Nassau port."

Mullroy frowned thickly. "But Jack Sparrow is only one pirate...and everyone knows that a single pirate cannot sack an entire port."

Murtogg thought about it for a moment and then protested. "Story says that it was only Jack that sacked her...did it without firing a single shot as well."

Mullroy straightened up from where he'd been leaning on his rifle. "You're trying to tell me," he began with marked skepticism, "that a single pirate...Jack Sparrow, waltzed into the port of Nassau, dodged a hundred troops, didn't fire a single shot, and managed to sack the entire town, all on his own, without help from a single person?"

Murtogg laughed. "Sounds a bit ridiculous when you put it like that."

Mullroy smiled knowingly. "Of course it does...it's just a story."

Murtogg nodded. "Yeah, everyone knows that pirates don't waltz." He remained contemplative for a moment. "I wonder how he did it?"

"Did what?" Mullroy asked.

"Sacked the port without firing a shot."

"I thought we agreed it was just a story?"

"Well, the part about 'im waltzing...that would be absurd," Murtogg said with a chuckle.

Mullroy propped one fist on a hip. "You don't find the idea that a single pirate could sack an entire town absurd?"

"No."

"And why would that be?" Mullroy asked, trying to be tolerant.

"He's Captain Jack Sparrow," Murtogg replied as if the reasoning should be completely apparent with that answer.

Mullroy rolled his eyes and went back to ignoring his partner for several long moments of blissful quiet.

"I suppose it's a good thing," Murtogg said at last.

Mullroy looked as if he were trying to be infinitely patient. "What is?"

"That he didn't use a gun."

"Yes, but he still sacked the port...that's not good at all," Mullroy argued.

"There probably would have been guns if his crew had helped," Murtogg added.

"Probably."

"Good thing that he did it himself."

"Exactly."

"You think you'd need a gun if you were going to sack an _entire_ port," Murtogg speculated.

"Yes, but he didn't use one now did he?" Mullroy answered impatiently.

"Pretty impressive, that."

"You shouldn't be impressed with the doings of a pirate...he still sacked a port," Mullroy scolded lightly.

"I suppose you're right...a lot of people could have been hurt," Murtogg said.

"But he didn't use a gun," Mullroy said with a frown, "and it's not likely that one man would be able to hurt many people without a gun."

"So, you're saying that it's alright he sacked Nassau port, as long as it was by himself, no one got hurt, and he didn't use a gun?"

"Don't be ridiculous...of course it's not alright, but if he sacked the entire port of Nassau, at least he didn't involve others and he didn't fire any shots," Mullroy replied firmly.

Murtogg grinned broadly.

"What?" Mullroy demanded.

--

This was a short one- shot (or no shot!) inspired by the prompt 'virtues and vices'.


	6. Mariner's Graveyard

Response to the prompt 'graveyard'. I wasn't sure at first that I would be able to come up with a drabble for this prompt, and it looks like I was right...got carried away a little yet again. :D Hope you enjoy anyway!

**Mariner's Graveyard ~*~**

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It was a typical evening it the _Faithful Bride_ –one that filled the rustic tavern of Tortuga with smoke and rowdy laughter, hushed conversations and the stench of stale beer.

Rough groups of celebrating pirates crowded the tables, their appearances and their language equally colorful, but in one shadowy corner, a small band of rogues sat with their drinks yet untouched before them on the table, watching with shrewd interest the activity around them.

A drunk cried out suddenly from across the room, catching the interest of the quiet group, as well as that of most of the room. "Arrrh! Is that the best tale yeh have, Josiah Johnson? Yeh expect me to be scared of a bit of rattling chain?"

"An' you can do better?" Johnson, a short barrel-chested man of little hair and fewer teeth, demanded indignantly.

"Aye, and so could me kid sister," tall, lanky, one-earred Bill Travers replied, managing to get a laugh from the group the two pirates were seated with.

Johnson leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his deep chest. "Let's have it, then," he challenged.

The group in the dim corner recognized instantly what was going on. This close to All Hallow's Eve the tales had taken a macabre twist; something seamen of all sorts seemed to have a penchant for. The current storytelling had become what was known as a Mariner's Graveyard – a contest that ended with the tab of the man who painted the most gruesome picture or wove the most terrifying yarn, being paid by his fellow storytellers.

Travers stood up. "Alright, then!" he said, and he began to tell a tale of woman who was often seen pacing the cliffs near her home, waiting for all eternity for the sailor who had never returned to her. "Folks say she never even realized when she died from a broken heart. She'd spent so long pacin' an' watchin' for 'im, that she kept on, same as usual, rising from her grave to walk the cliffs and wait for a ship that had sunk thirty years before."

The group at their table pounded their mugs on the table in appreciation for the story, but a pirate at the neighboring table, a fellow with an eye patch and more of his skin covered in ink than not, stood up and faced Travers' table. "I've got better," he said, getting the attention of most of the room.

"Well, let's hear it, mate," Johnson said, hoping that he might outdo Travers' spookier tale.

The tattooed pirate nodded. "There's the story of the boy who drowned in the well of his village...one not far from Glasgow, they say. Seems as if the villagers considered it bad luck to drink from the well after that, and they made do with carrying water all the way back from the stream a half mile away."

Taking a moment to fortify himself with a draught of ale, the pirate went on. "One day a stranger arrived in town, and thirsty from his travels, winched up the bucket from the well before anyone could stop him. Even though the townsfolk begged him not to drink, he thought their warnings were right foolish, and he took a long drink, laughing to himself at their horrified faces."

"What happened?" Travers asked curiously from the next table.

"Nothing," Eye-Patch declared, "...until that night..."

Most of the occupants of the room leaned a little closer to make sure they heard what was said next.

"The traveler started hearing the little boy's laughter, though no one else in town could hear it. It occurred more and more often, and the traveler spent night after night without sleep, growing mad from the lack of it," he explained in an ominous tone. "Eventually the boy's laughter became cries for help, and then screams of desperation and fear that haunted the traveler even during the day."

"So, wha' 'appened to 'im?" a member of the tattooed pirate's table asked.

"He went mad with the voices," Eye-patch went on, "and one sleepless night when he could take no more, the townsfolk say that he flung himself into the well –the only way he knew how to make the boy's voice stop in his head."

He paused to take another swig of ale. "I pity the next unsuspecting traveler that drinks from that well," he finished solemnly.

A long pause in the tavern was suddenly interrupted by an enthusiastic cry that went up. Apparently Eye-patch had bested the stories offered so far.

When the hubbub had died down again, and it was looking like the tattooed pirate might end up the victor, a weathered voice spoke up from the shadows.

"I have a tale as yet might best that one," one of the men in the shadowy corner said in a voice worn coarse by years of excessive rum and salt air.

"You think so?" Eye-patch asked jovially, confident in his creepy yarn.

"Aye."

The group in the darkened corner shifted a little to let the speaker step forth when he stood. A tall pirate in a fine coat stepped out of the shadows and toward the competing tables with a slightly uneven gait, contemplating the occupants with an unblinking stare from under the great plumed hat that sat atop his head.

"Let's hear it, then," Bill Travers said, gesturing at the newcomer with his mug.

The pirate nodded once, and began to pace steadily as he told the tale. "'Tis said that there once be a treasure of extraordinary worth…tucked away for an age in the bowels of a cavern, which in turn be located on an island shrouded in mist and time."

It was enough to grab the attention of the room, and only a few murmurs ran through the _Bride's_ crowd as the pirate went on.

"Thing was," he continued, "as rumor of the fantastic treasure spread, so did the idea of a curse that might befall any who took a single piece of the gold."

He allowed himself a subtle wry grin that he shared with his listeners. "Spreadin' such is not the most original way to try to ward off fellow pirates from yer hoard, ye must admit." He elicited a round of knowing nods and laughter and then took the tale back up.

"Well, such be the thoughts of the men who finally found the gold –the _Curse_ be a fabrication...a falsehood meant to scare off the faint of heart. None amongst that stout and fearless crew would e'er be put off by such an old wives' tale," he said, glancing once back at his companions in the shadows as he continued to pace.

"They took all the gold form the chest...every last coin be theirs fer the spendin' at last, after weeks of searchin'." Here he paused just a beat or two for dramatic effect.

"Was the gold cursed?" someone asked from a table behind him, and he spun to face the speaker.

"Aye, cursed it be...and not just cursed, lads...cursed with the worst fate a man could find brought down upon hisself," he said, staring blackly at nothing for a moment.

"The curse were no ordinary one wrought by human malice...no, this be a curse placed upon the treasure by gods of a heathen people, to punish the likes of Cortez himself and his men fer the slaughter of innocents." He stepped aside to let a barmaid with a laden tray bring another round of drinks to the tables he'd been addressing.

"As terrible as the deeds of Cortez were, so terrible the gods decreed the curse need be…any mortal that stole but a single piece of the gold bearing the Aztec skull, would find himself immortal."

"What's so bad about that?" Johnson asked flippantly.

"Aye, so ye'd think at first, wouldn't yeh?" the pirate said. "But picture this...alive fer all eternity, yet unable to taste the smallest drop of drink." He picked up a nearby mug and poured it out slowly, and then set it back on the table.

"Unable to smell or taste a single bite of the food that all around ye were enjoying…month upon month of bein' starved and dyin' of thirst...and worse yet," he said, stepping in front of the returning barmaid and reaching out to take up a handful of her hair that he let slip longingly through his fingers, "unable to feel the flaxen hair or silken skin of any maid fair as this one."

He winked at the young barmaid, and stepped aside to let her pass with a blush and a smile of her own.

"What happened to them?" the tattooed storyteller asked unhappily, sensing this story might possibly displace his own as the most chilling.

"What happened?" the pirate repeated, fastening an intense stare at the asker from under the brim of his elegant hat again. "Why, still they sail the seas, long years after their folly, Master Eye-Patch. An eternity of seachin'...bound they be to the gold forever, 'til one day all the scattered pieces mayhap be recovered."

He paced a little more as he wrapped up his offered tale. "'Tis said that ye can recognize them fer who they are, if the night be fair and clear, an' the moon shines down upon them, fer it melts away the flesh on their bones, leavin' them but walkin' corpses, cursed to pay fer their greed...fer all their greed..." he trailed off.

Near silence hung in the air in the tavern for a few seconds after the speaker had finished, and he stepped closer to the table, his gaze still fastened on the pirate with the missing eye. "What say ye? Does this tale bypass yer own?" he asked evenly.

Uneasy after the story, the occupants looked to Eye-patch, expecting him to argue the merits of his own horrific tale, but instead the tattooed buccaneer looked pale, and simply nodded to acknowledge the pirate standing before him. "Aye," he croaked back. "A fair storyteller you are, and a frightful tale you tell, mate. Consider your tab and that of your crew," he said, indicating the half dozen who waited in the shadows, "paid in full."

He nervously picked up his mug, but was unable to bring it to his lips to drink with the intense steely gaze still upon him and set it back on the table.

"I'd prefer to have the coin ye'd be carryin' in yer pocket," the tall pirate growled back softly.

Clearly agitated with worry now, the one-eyed pirate nodded silently, and retrieved the mentioned gold coin, tossing it quickly across the table as if it burned his fingers.

The pirate before him caught it deftly, holding it up in the light for but a brief moment, but it was a long enough moment that the occupants of the two nearby tables could make out the Aztec skull on the face of it.

"Thankee kindly," the speaker said, and without another word, turned and followed where the rest of his companions had already slipped from behind their table of untouched drinks and out into the shadows of the night.

After that evening, it was a long time before the patrons of the _Faithful Bride_ could bring themselves to once again compete in a Mariner's Graveyard.


	7. Dark Ambition

Response to the prompt 'chaos.'

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**Dark Ambition ~*~**

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Sitting on the breezy deck of the good ship _Endeavor_, Cutler Beckett made the slightest adjustment to the perfectly powdered and elegant wig that he wore atop his head; the crown of the monarch of his own vast empire that matched in scope that of his king, but was perhaps more lucrative.

At least it would be shortly, when the pirates were eliminated for good. Once the devastation and interference that were dealt by those corrupted rogues were banished from the seas, his Company would reign supreme.

Anarchy and turmoil they sowed, but not for much longer. Beckett stood, a civilized cup of tea in his hand; one from a tin bearing his company's insignia, and looked out over the scores of Company ships, poised malevolently on the horizon.

So.

If it was chaos the pirates favored, he thought as he sipped, allowing himself a tiny self-satisfied smile, then chaos he would oblige them with, here at the end.


	8. What Else are Friends For?

**A/N: **A response to a different type of prompt this week. Everyone was given specific but differing directions for their submission. For those of you who don't know him, Turk is my OC, and Barbossa's bo'sun and best friend throughout my writings. He has a penchant for teasing May and insulting Barbossa's hat.

The challenge, by FreedomOftheSeas: _Nytd, if Barbossa gave Turk a chance to make a speech at his wedding (to May, of course lol!), what would he say?_

Of course, this is a tiny bit of a cheat, seeing as how we have no idea if May will end up marrying Barbossa where things stand in the saga right now, but it should do. ;)

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**What Else are Friends For?**

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Yeh know, I figure the strange dream was probably my own damn fault.

Likely because I've been on Barbossa's back so much 'bout marryin' that lady of his…bloody peacock needs to get around to askin' her already. If he doesn't soon, I jus' might. She's a damn good cook an' we get along pretty well. (Nice arse too...doesn't hurt a thing, if yeh ask me.)

Well, I don't really mean it, not really. (Her 'n me, I mean. Ain't nothin' wrong with 'er arse.) She's been more like my little sister. Besides, since the day she set foot on the _Rogue Wave_, (okay, so she was _dragged_ onto the ship) it's been obvious that Barbossa was smitten.

Yeah, that's right. _Smitten_. Head over heels. Weak in the knees. If yeh got a sappy expression of some sort for it...well, that was him. Hard to believe, I know, thinkin' about one of the most notorious rogues in the Caribbean (he likes to think the world too) bein' involved in a romance, but he's in love, and that much I can say fer certain.

How do I know?

I'm Barbossa's bo'sun. Sailed with 'im on the _Oxford_, the _Rogue Wave_, and now the _Black Pearl_. (Friggin' Barbossa loves that bloody ship almost as much as his lady doctor...but don't tell 'er, ok?)

Name's Turk. Well, the name's really Theodore Robert Kempthorne the third, but Theodore ain't very piratey, now is it? Neither is Ted, so don't even try it, mate.

Anyway, an odder couple yeh won't find fer lookin'. Him a Pirate Lord who does as he pleases; a fearsome, swaggerin' old rogue who likes bein' the center of attention more often'n not. Her a prim and proper lady; educated and learned, carin' for all those 'round her whether they deserve it or not.

But I'll tell yeh this- no matter what it might sound like or look like on the surface, them waters run deep. No question, if yeh were to ask me, even after 12 years apart, that Madeline Gray is destined to become May Barbossa.

They're still workin' on it, but they'll get there. 'Specially if I keep kickin' Barbossa's arse about it, and keep remindin' May that seein' as how she waited twelve years fer him to return, she can wait a bit longer for the old peacock to ask her.

Peacock, yeh say?

Yeah, peacock. What else would I call that swaggerin', cocky, old scoundrel in all his fine clothes and with those damn fancy feathers on his hat?

Oh. The Hat. Don't even get me started, mate.

Enough of that. I...what's that word Barbossa uses? Oh yeah, _digress_.

But I digress. Back to the strange dream I had.

Must've been somethin' that Hamlyn made fer dinner that didn't agree with me that caused the dream, but then again...I reckon not. Hamlyn hasn't made a friggin' meal yet that's agreed with me, or any of the other crew fer that matter. But that has nothin' to do with the dream.

Seems that Barbossa had finally asked Doctor Gray to marry him, and as yeh might suspect, they chose to be married aboard the _Black Pearl_. That's where what yeh might expect ended...not my fault...we all have strange things happen in our dreams we can't rightly explain.

Fer example, Jack Sparrow married them.

So, yeah. Yeh get the picture already. Not bloody likely to happen in real life, now is it?

Fer some reason, every guest aboard the ship got his or her own parrot to sit on their shoulders. Makes fer a lot o' color, but a bit too noisy, especially as seein' them birds get a kick out of tryin' to out-squawk each other. Makes an awful mess too...but I won't go into detail.

Jack the monkey carried the ring fer May...not a good idea; it took us twenty minutes to get the little blighter out of the rigging to get the ring back. Ragetti helped the most. He's pretty good at chasin' the undead primate pipsqueak down.

I wouldn't tell Barbossa to 'is face, but that thing's a blasted menace. Don't matter how cute he is, he's still a bloody pain in the arse. Just ask May...he's bit her there once when she got too close to Barbossa in front of him.

So, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow marries them (yeah, Barbossa had to give up the _Pearl_ for the day to Sparrow so he could perform the ceremony)...took all of thirty seconds, I think. The way Jack figures it, there's no sense in wastin' time with too many flowery words when there's a lot of rum a-waitin'. Especially rum that Barbossa paid fer.

But yeh can't blame Sparrow there. The best kind of rum is that which someone else paid fer. Or if someone else has already done all the work stealin' it, if yeh ask me.

Anyhow, next in the dream the rum is bein' passed around, and it falls to someone to make a toast. All eyes came to me first. I reckon' that's fair since I've known Barbossa the longest...bloody near thirty years by my figurin'. That's a long friggin' time, mate, let me tell yeh.

So, there I was, rum in hand and the crowd on the deck waitin', Barbossa and May lookin' at me expectantly while I tried to figure out what to say. I finally raised my cup and spoke.

"Three things I have to say on this fine evenin', gents!" I said. "Firstly, to Hector Barbossa, blackhearted rogue, conniving scallywag, and a savvy old pirate who knows that a good woman, jus' like a good ship, can be expensive to rig and tough to steer."

Barbossa laughed at what I'd said, and May did too. I knew she'd know I was jokin'. Yeh ain't never met a lass as nice as May. 'Course my opinion might be biased...she did save my life.

"Secondly, to Doctor Madeline Gray...ah, wait! Beg yer pardon. To _Doctor May Barbossa_," I corrected myself, causin' May to blush as the company on deck cheered. "I once heard a little poem that I think yeh might like, darlin'."

May smiled, but she had a look of wariness in 'er eyes, prob'ly thinkin' I'd say somethin' less than tasteful.

She knows me too well.

So, I raised my drink to Barbossa's new bride, and spoke an old toast I'd heard in a tavern once that kinda stuck with me. (Believe me, there are a lot of others that came to mind, but after all, dream or not, it was the woman's wedding day...so I was kind...er, than I might have been.)

"To darlin' May. Here's to sin, and here's to virtue, a lit'le bit of both won't hurt you. A bit o' virtue is enhancin', a bit 'o sin can be entrancin'. Be good m'dear, but don't be haughty, there's too much fun in bein' naughty."

Wouldn't be the first time I'd made 'er cheeks go that red, but it was worth it to see the way she smiled, and to see the way 'er new husband laughed. Glad to see it from 'im. It's been a long time comin'.

Anyway, I'd said there were three things I had to say, an' when the crew simmered down, I raised my drink again. "Thirdly, and I think yeh'll agree this is fittin'," I said, seein' the way Barbossa's eyes suddenly narrowed in suspicion. "We must all drink a toast...to _The Hat_."

I knew Barbossa might kill me later, but do yeh think I could pass up an opportunity like that? Not bloody likely!

"To _The Hat_," I repeated. "They say that clothes make the man, an' what would our illustrious cap'n be without his elegant and equally notorious hat?"

I was tryin' not to laugh like the crew was, seein' as how they knew som'thin' was comin'. Even Barbossa was havin' trouble not smilin', and May already knew where things were headin'.

"I mean," I said pleasantly, "just because it looks like an albatross built a nest on yer bandana...and just because it appears that a moltin' turkey decided to take a nap in yer hair...and just because...someone might think an unfortunate duck crash landed into yer head...doesn't mean that it isn't the finest of all hats we've seen."

If'n there's one thing I can say 'bout Barbossa, he's been a right good ol' chap 'bout me pickin' on his hat, and when I took a large swig of rum, I could see him rollin' his eyes at me that way he does. Not that anyone else on deck would walk away from insultin' his hat like that, but Barbossa's been puttin' up with me fer nigh thirty years, and he'd expect no less on his weddin' day.

He was smilin' when I went to him and May, as the pirates on deck began celebratin' more enthusiastically.

"Those particular insults I've not heard in the past, Master Turk," he said to me with May hanging onto his arm.

"Had to come up with a few new ones fer the occasion," I said, prob'ly wearin' a bit of a smirk.

"Well, thankee fer puttin' in the effort...I'll not be forgettin' it anytime soon," Barbossa said, prob'ly already plottin' revenge.

"Don't mention it," I said, "but I have a question fer May 'bout yer hat," I said, already havin' trouble keepin' a straight face.

"Yes, Turk," she said quickly, "I do like more than his hat, you already know that."

Poor May, thinkin' she was prepared fer what I was going to ask.

"Yeah, I figured, fer as much time as yeh spend alone in this swaggerin' bantam's company," I said, "but that's not the question I had fer yeh."

"Oh, what was it you wanted to ask?" she asked, innocently.

Yeh'd think she'd know me well enough after all this time not to give me an openin' like that.

"Well, seein' as how Barbossa here loves 'is hat so much, and seein' as how he loves you so much, and yeh spend so much time alone with 'im," I started.

"I assure ye, Turk, that I would pick this lovely lass over me hat any day," Barbossa said gallantly, earning himself an adoring smile from his bride.

"Still not my question, Hector," I said.

"Then what is?"

I turned to May again. "Does he ever take that _friggin_' _thing_ off?"

Dream or no, I've never seen 'er turn that shade of red before, and I suddenly realized that she took my question to mean somethin' much more specific than I did. I only meant '_ever'_ in a general sense. She took '_ever'_ to mean...well, judgin' by the way she blushed, I think yeh know what she thought.

Thank the Powers that I woke up at that point. There are jus' some questions that yeh'd be best off not have the answer to, ever.

Think yeh'd agree with me that'd be one of them questions.


	9. Fury

Drabble in response to the prompt 'wild and untamed' at the Broken Compass this week.

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**Fury ~*~**

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The haunting melody filled the dank wooden cavern that passed for a cabin, soaring to great heights as the emotions of the figure seated in front of the organ rose up.

Each crescendo reverberated throughout the timbers of the _Flying Dutchman_, thrumming though her very bones, and likewise those of her cursed crew.

Once, the song had echoed the passion he had felt for her in the only way he could express the depth and range of feeling he carried in his heart, but now with that treacherous organ locked away and forsaken, his passion had twisted itself into something wretched and bitter, although no less intense.

Still he played on, his rage and resentment roaring to life through the organ. Dark tones echoed dark thoughts, and his playing wore on as ceaselessly as his anger.

Despite the mournful sighs and crashing despair which now issued from the great pipes, replacing the ardent strains of joy and devotion, the melody remained familiar.

Ever had it been a thing wild and untamed, either in elation or desolation.

Ever had he played for her.

~*~


	10. True Colors

**True Colors ~*~**

Say the name _Elizabeth Swann_ to anyone in Port Royal, and it would conjure up for them the image of a graceful and charming young lady of proper breeding and impeccable manners. It would call to mind a beautiful girl that was the envy of so many others as she attended the affairs of the elite in gowns from London and Paris; nary a hair out of place on her elegantly coiffed head.

True, the term _headstrong_ would follow fast on the heels of those images, thoughts of how she'd picked a blacksmith over an officer accompanying it. But it was the worst they could accuse her of in her years in Jamaica, and they forgave her for her trespass as it provided them with such ample and delicious gossip.

But what would they think of her this moment, if you said the name _Captain_ Elizabeth Swann, Pirate King, clad as she was in exotic garb from the Orient, and adorned with a blade at her hip so sharp it would split one of the hairs on her head?

What would they say, seeing her now, perched atop the rail and bellowing at the fiercest buccaneers to ever sail the seven seas, leading them into dirty, bloody, noisy, _deadly _combat?

Her powdered and primped veneer had begun to crumble the moment she'd first set foot on the deck of a pirate ship, and as she looked out over the sea of scarred but determined faces, she tore aside any last vestiges of that Port Royal façade with her last three words.

"Hoist the Colors."


	11. Among the Living

Response to the prompt 'alive'. I wanted to feature a minor character this week.

--

**Among the Living**

**--**

Enduring the ridiculous hue and cry with patience born of long hours of meditation, and a wisdom garnered through endless dealings with cutthroats and rogues such as those shouting around him, even Sumbhajee Angria was having his infinite tolerance put to task today by the endless circular arguing.

He silently thanked Vishnu for the fact that Barbossa had the arrogance and the gall to think that he could command the attention of a room full of bickering Pirate Lords, and for the fact that apparently he could.

Of course, regardless of the debating, the arguing or the outcome of the proposed vote, it would all come down to fighting in the end, one way or another, and Sumbhajee was well prepared for that inevitability.

Glancing briefly with distaste at the floor beside him, his only wish was that whatever might come of this confrontation with the Court, and indeed with the EITC, that he might end up one step better than his poor loyal Askay, cooling in a pool of his own blood at his feet. More than that he could not hope to ask for.


	12. Advice for a Young Pirate

**Advice for a Young Pirate ~*~**

**--**

At sixteen, Frederick Hickmott, the newest member of the crew, didn't look old enough to be a pirate, but the young man knew he had what it took to sail with the group of buccaneers on the _Rogue Wave_. He'd even made sure to deck the first man who'd condescendingly called him Freddie, and despite the fact that he'd subsequently gotten the snot beat out of him, the crew respected him for his gumption, and never called him Frederick, Fred, or Freddie again. To them he was just Hickmott.

Young Hickmott stood at the rail, already hard at work tying off a rope in the early morning sun, when he thought he heard someone speak to him. Looking up, he realized that he was being approached by none other than the captain, who was walking toward him with his hands clasped casually behind his back.

The youthful pirate straightened up smartly, not sure what the captain had said to him, but he decided it was better to ask Barbossa to repeat himself, rather than risk making the ship's intimidating leader think he was being ignored.

Hickmott nervously cleared his throat. "Beg pardon, sir, were you speaking to me?"

Absorbed in his own thoughts, Barbossa seemed surprised to find Hickmott standing there addressing him, and after scrutinizing the young lad with a piercing blue gaze, appeared to understand why the boy was talking to him.

"Apologies, Master Hickmott," he said pleasantly enough. "'Twas not you I was speakin' to, but me fine lady here."

"Sir?" Hickmott asked, frowning slightly. "You were speaking to the ship?"

Barbossa saw the puzzled look on the young man's face and he chuckled, much to Hickmott's surprise. "Aye, lad. Ye'll get to know soon enough, that sea-goin' ladies like to be paid attention to as much as the land-dwellin' ones, and ye'll get further with each if you learn just how to speak to them."

"And how might that be, sir?" Hickmott asked, taking advantage of Barbossa's apparent fine mood to converse with him.

"Ah, 'tis simple enough, lad. Each type likes to hear she's desirable and pretty, and ye'll do well to maintain a healthy measure of respect fer both," Barbossa said.

"Fer instance, Master Hickmott," Barbossa continued, gesturing about him at the ship, "each dawn I wish this fine lady a good mornin', and each evenin' I tell her how beautiful and strong she is, and thank her fer lookin' after meself and me crew."

"I see," Hickmott said, glancing about the ship briefly, but hoping more that the older pirate might turn the conversation back to females of flesh and blood, rather than wood and canvas.

"Payin' a lady a sincere compliment is never a bad thing, lad, and the _Rogue_, fine lass of the sea that she is," Barbossa went on, patting the rail affectionately, "never wants fer praise or a kind word from her captain. 'Tis why she sails twice as sweetly fer me as fer any other master."

"And what about the ladies on land?" Hickmott asked in earnest. "Do they respond the same way?"

Barbossa's only answer was a subtle smirk before he turned away and strolled across the deck again, his hands clasped casually once more behind his back, and Hickmott couldn't help but grin as he returned to his work.

--

**A/N:** The line Barbossa uses ('Tis why she sails twice as sweetly fer me as fer any other master.) is based on a quote by Rex Harrison as Captain Daniel Gregg in the 1947 film version of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. ;)


	13. Hands Off!

Response to a mini-challenge over at the Broken Compass by FreedomOftheSeas.

Must be drabblish -118 words

Must be** M** rated -this one is for violence instead of sex this time

The prompt was 'touch'.

Inspired by the scene where Barbossa rescues Madeline in MofM.

--

**Hands Off! ~*~**

--

The blood pouring into the dense tropical foliage from the meaty stump where Stoker's hand had previously been was alarmingly impressive, as he screamed in fury for the briefest moment.

A second hiss of steel singing through the air cut short his cry, instantly rendering it a wet choking sound. As more blood spilled from his neck, he sank to his knees, his eyes full of fear and anger.

It was nothing compared to the anger that blazed in Barbossa's steely stare, and he watched, sword in hand, as May's assailant keeled over and his life seeped into the ground. He'd made sure Stoker didn't survive long enough to regret that he'd ever laid a hand on her.


	14. Unforgettable

**A/N:** What goes through Jack's mind after being sent to the brig again as he and Barbossa continue their typical one-upmanship while attempting to share command of the _Black Pearl_. :)

--

Reponse to the prompt 'flair' over at the Broken Compass this week.

--

Anyone else might have said that he was pouting, after he'd been insulted and dragged back to the brig once more, but with the mood he was in he would be only too happy to correct them in a way they'd not forget any time soon.

Pirates as a whole, and most especially, Captain Jack Sparrow did _not_ pout.

Stomp around in a surly manner, yes; glower from a corner, or brood darkly over his fate, yes, but never, never _pout_.

Jack wrapped his hands through the bars and stared into the gloom around the cage he was stuck in once more.

_Bloody Barbossa. _

Jack had half a mind to put another single shot on reserve for his nemesis, not only because the man had locked him in his own brig, but for all the things he'd said.

'_Oh, jus' that the crew talks..._' Barbossa had said once, smirking to himself, '_'bout the way yeh sway and sashay here and there..._'

He'd made fun of Jack's adopted moniker to his face. '_Just how piratey be Sparrow anyway? Half the crew thinks yer flighty and flamboyant_.'

'_But as of this moment ye'd be naught but a common scallywag aboard my ship_', he'd said at the last, just moments before Jack had ended up in the _Pearl's_ hold yet again.

Common indeed. Huh!

Never was there a more _uncommon_ scallywag than Captain Jack Sparrow, and Jack had promptly spoken up and said just that to the old bastard.

Jack folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the back wall, continuing to _not pout _over being incarcerated again. What Barbossa, and in fact many of them failed to understand was what made Jack who he was, was the name, the walk, the _uncommonness_ of it all.

Jack wasn't just a pirate, he was a pillager with panache, a scallywag with style, a _memorable_ marauder, as it were.

Which was the whole point, wasn't it? Anyone could commandeer a ship, or smuggle stolen goods, or sack a port, but not everyone could do it in such memorable style as Captain Jack Sparrow.


	15. Deep Water

Reponse to the prompt 'seduction' over at _The Black Pearl_ forum. You can see I failed spectacularly at keeping it to 100 words again. ;)

--

**Deep Water ~*~**

--

He supposed it began when he was a small child, when he'd first seen the sun glittering on the jewel-toned waves of emerald and sapphire.

He'd stared, mesmerized by the scintillating beauty, the play of light on water, not realizing as he gazed upon her splendor, that his feet carried him forward. He hadn't recognized the call for what it was, he was too young, but he'd stood at the boundary where lacey foam lapped lazily at the white-gold sand, and closed his eyes, listening to the gentle susurrations as they lulled him.

Another step forward would have landed him ankle-deep in seawater, but the cry of his mother had broken the spell, and he'd turned away and run off to whence he'd come.

It was perhaps a year before he gazed upon her once more, come down from the highlands again to the ocean border of his home, and on that sun-sparkled day the breakers rolled in: great cresting, tumbling, jade swells that crashed upon the shore. Their rumbling crescendo culminated in a roar of water that made the other children squeal and run, dashing back and forth from the edge in a game that kept them trying to get closer without getting wet.

He had no use for that game, and he spent long moments contemplating the ocean before him. Playful she was today, however, unlike the last time when he'd been witness to one of her more languid moods. How he knew that exactly, he wasn't sure, but it couldn't have been more obvious, especially when an errant wave ventured closer and slyly managed to soak his feet.

Startled but then delighted, he retaliated mischievously, hurling a shiny obsidian shell through the next swell. He supposed he should have been surprised, when a few waves later, the same shell was deposited at his feet, but it never occurred to him to find it strange; he'd almost been expecting it.

Their game continued for half an hour. He hurled the black shell as far as his young arm could, and each time she laid it at his feet again, her laughter present in the sounds of the gulls that whirled and dove overhead. When she finally tired of their play, she brought the shell back again, just out of reach, tempting him to venture further and further into the water to retrieve it.

Ankle deep he went, and then past his knees, trying to obtain the prize she kept just ahead of his fingers. Another step forward took him in up to his hip, but the call of his father, impatient with the boy getting himself soaked, drew him back to shore with one last glance over his shoulder. When he arrived home later, to his great delight, he found the black shell in his pocket.

He saw her again, two years later, although the earlier memories and the ebony shell had stayed with him, her voice there in its depths if ever he held it to his ear. He played no games upon this occasion, however, for her mood was dark and brooding; gray, curling surges of ocean slammed against the rocks, tossing broad fans of spray far into the air.

The other children kept their distance, watching warily for a few moments and then losing interest because they could not safely dart closer, but he stood his ground on a lone rock, admiring her raw power and the beauty of it. Too close he was, according to his parents, but he knew not to be afraid, for her anger was not with him. Despite the ferocity of the waves on either side of him, he stayed put, knowing that she drank in his admiration and raged harder because of it, exalting in her own strength and his awe.

When the time came for him to make his way in the world, there was only one place he would go; he found her tender and welcoming that day he set foot on a ship, and joined her for a longer time than he ever had before. He worked hard, but it made no difference to him, for by day she caressed his cheek with a soft breeze, and by night she lulled him to sleep with gentle rhythms.

After several years it could be said that few, if any, knew her better, and his ability to anticipate her moods waxed uncanny. Lucky, they said he was, for never did his vessel suffer damage during a storm, and never did he fear to sail when the weather turned foul. He knew she'd not harm him, for he'd not done anything to anger her.

The year he came of age found him in warmer climes. The seas were as familiar to him as if he had lived there all his life, despite the fact that he'd never sailed those waters. It was here she had beckoned him, wishing to show him another facet of her beauty, garbed as she was in raiments of sublime turquoise.

Here, time ashore for him was something to be endured, and to be tolerated as a necessary evil. Food and drink held no greater appeal landside than deck-side, and he grew restless as the days before they would cast off meandered by. It was rare that he let her out of his sight, and on those infrequent occasions when he did, he never ventured further than her salty perfume would carry upon the wind.

While his cohorts quenched the thirst in their throats and their need for company fairer than their rough-hewn shipmates, he stalked the beach, admiring the dark beauty of the rising moon shimmering across her placidly rippling surface. Restive he was, and hungry, but not for any fare that might be found upon the innkeeper's table. Unlike his sailing mates, he did not comprehend what desire drove him now; unlike him, his companions did not understand that it was no earthly flesh that could sate his need.

Stranded on land, impatient for the feel of the swells under his stride, and anxious for some way to assuage his craving for her, he turned abruptly from the long stretch of sand and splashed into the surf, wading in past his knees. The slow rhythm of each low wave caressing his thighs did little to cool his blood, which surged hotly through his veins, warmer even than the steamy Caribbean night. He closed his eyes and drew deep deeply, hoping that breathing the tang of sea air would calm him as it had so often in the past.

His name echoed lightly in his ear, as if whispered by the fleeting ocean breeze or murmured softly from the depths of the black shell he'd carried all those years, and he opened his eyes, only to behold the water before him gathering in swirls and currents that quickly surrounded him. Eddies united in greater ripples on the surface, and in the midst of a sudden surge of dark water, she rose.

Smoothly she stood up, water cascading from her shoulders over her torso to coalesce into a garment of midnight green that fell past her knees, mingling still with the water at her feet so that it was difficult to tell where one began and the other ended.

He knew her immediately and stood transfixed. She could have come to him in any form, for she had so many. Snowy-pale, raven-dark or shimmering bronze features she might have chosen, but that moment she reflected the sultry night around them, the dusky skin of her arms and shoulders shimmering, rich, and warm. Her dark eyes glittered like the night sea under the moon, and her hair fell past her shoulders, a cascade of purposeful tangles that swayed in the breeze like the undulating seaweed in the tidal pools.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with a gentle finger against his lips, its elegant nail as black as the shell from his childhood. Her fingers brushed tenderly across his cheek, the feel of them simultaneously the caress of warm skin and soft ocean breeze; it soothed his soul, but only for a moment. Lightly she trailed her fingers down his throat, letting them come to rest over his heart as her eyes met his, and he could not look away.

Only when she smiled briefly and leaned in close, did he realize her intent, and he closed his eyes, rigid with anticipation as the fingers of her other hand reached behind his head and drew his face down to hers. Fleetingly her lips met his, warm, soft and tasting of the seawater that still glistened upon her skin; perhaps they always tasted that way. Again she kissed him, the second time less tame than the first, and by the third kiss he'd drawn her against him, his fingers trembling slightly with his yearning to have her completely, as they caressed the satin skin of her bare arms.

She knew what he desired, what he needed and what he longed after, for she had known him all his life. She had been there for him with caress of seaspray, a gentle whisper upon the waves. She had raged for him in all her tempestuous glory, drawing strength from his adoration, thrilled that he worshipped her above all else. And now she wanted from him what he had given no other, in return for what she had given so few.

Hungrily she pressed her mouth up against his again, guiding him, coaxing him, sliding his hands from her shoulders to let them have more of her. She drew him down to his knees in the shallow water, kissing him and wrapping him in her familiar embrace.

By the time he'd surrendered his clothes to a forgotten pile in the sand and she pulled him down against her, no sailor had ever been so lost at sea.

**~*~**


	16. A Not so Innocent Bystander

Reply to the prompt '_witness_'.

A Not so Innocent Bystander

He remained silent as Barbossa's piercing gaze swept the company gathered on deck, as did every last man on board. Too many agreed with the old rogue, and too few opposed Barbossa's decision to dare to speak up, himself included.

Doing the right thing had never come easy to him, but doing the easy thing, aye, now that he was accustomed to, from the moment he'd left her on the dock, weeping with a baby in her arms, to the current one as he stared at his feet instead of meeting Jack's gaze.

"Looks as if they all be votin' the same way, Jack," he heard Barbossa sneer triumphantly, as two burly pirates dragged their former captain to the rail.

"They gotta do what's right by them," Jack said, the reply causing him to glance up from the deck and face the unnervingly calm way Jack's gaze met his before he'd been thrown to the dark waves.

It was well into the small hours that he leaned against the rail, still contemplating that look –had it held understanding? Forgiveness? He didn't know, but what he did know was that he deserved neither, as surely as Jack hadn't deserved his fate.


	17. Poison

**A/N:** Yes, I'm jumping into the fray like everyone else this weekend with an OST one-shot. Barbossa oriented, of course, and something that gave me a break from writing the almost-finished next chapter of ARAT.

Disclaimer: Four movies later, the characters still do not belong to me, but to Disney. This is all for fun, as always. :)

*Spoiler warning for On Stranger Tides* – if ye've not seen the movie yet, what the blazes are yeh waitin' for?

~o~

Tortuga.

Sweet home-away-from-home to every mother's son what calls hisself pirate, her light shone through the darkness, visible from the deck of the _Queen Anne's Revenge_. Not a beacon of salvation, Barbossa thought, where he stood at the rail, but more a flame to draw the moths. The only difference was the moths' destruction was instantaneous, while any pirate would stretch his out o'erlong, rotting his innards slowly with rum, pissing his fortune away steadily with gambling, and blackening his soul ever darker with every ill deed done at sea between visits.

But no one's destruction came less quickly than his own, Barbossa thought with a smile to himself; the scar upon his cheek, the degree of gray in his hair, and the mighty ship that he strode across with yet but one leg of the two that God had given him all standing testament to that fact. Barbossa glanced down at the place where his scarred right leg once had been, weighing again the price paid; it could not match the value of his freedom, nor that of his free will, and any regret he might have had over the loss of limb, he'd let float away upon the tide along with the blood he'd shed upon Calypso's mantle.

Besides, that price had already been repaid in the revenge exacted upon his enemy. Edward Teach's arrogance had been his undoing; if he'd thought the Caspian Lord a poor threat after Barbossa had weathered ten years of a soul-withering curse, and all that had followed, Blackbeard had either been even more full of himself than anyone thought, or sadly misinformed.

Barbossa, smiling to himself over his latest dark triumph, preferred to favor the latter, as he bellowed out the orders to begin dropping canvas on the approach to the harbor of Tortuga. Not that he thought Teach to be an easy adversary –what Blackbeard had done throughout his career was not to be made light of, and had become all too real that night the _Pearl_ had been taken. Many a man had given up, succumbing to despair when they recognized the ship that had raked their hull, and when their own rigging had coiled itself around them in a constrictor's grasp.

His revenge had been in snakelike kind, then, although not the crushing grip of power begat of rapacity and black magic, but the subtle sting of death, born of endless patience and keenly honed instincts as to when a single strike would do the most damage.

Now Blackbeard was dead, and Barbossa had claimed his sword and his ship as trophies. The _Queen Anne's Revenge_ would have her use –Barbossa had told himself that all he needed was to feel the wind on his face and the spray of the sea, but the truth he had yet to admit even to himself, was that she was a passing fancy, a new toy to be played with until she bored him and he tossed her aside, a pretty face to gaze upon until he again met with that dark beauty who had long ago claimed his heart.

The _Black Pearl_ was out there, somewhere, and once half his crew jumped ship in Tortuga as he knew they would, the rest he would take along to find her, even if he had to bargain with Calypso herself again to get her back. Then the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ could go to hell with her former master for all he cared.

As for the sword…Barbossa drew the blade from his hip and considered it as they dropped anchor, looking it over for a long moment. A wretched thing it seemed, he unexpectedly thought, a thing vile and stained, though her blade gleamed brightly, temptingly, nay, seductively in the moonlight. The hand that held it seemed as if it would never let go, and Barbossa frowned. With this sword he could not only command pirates, but many pirates, not just one ship, but many ships, and when he wielded it, the sword would not only control men, it would control him.

He looked it over only once more before he let go of the blade more poisonous than his had ever been, not even looking back at the splash it made, as he adjusted his hat to a jaunty angle and took his first uneven step across the deck and onward to whatever fate awaited him; to whatever fate he would take into his own hands.

~o~


	18. Reflection Upon the Deep

Random one-shot inspired by discussion of mermaids at the _Black Pearl_ forum. Barbossa considers the dangers of Whitecap Bay in private.

Reflection Upon the Deep

~o~

Timeless they were, and because of it, only half-believable. That, however, didn't make them any less real.

Or any less deadly.

Barbossa sat as his desk in the _Providence's_ cabin, his hat and wig tossed carelessly upon a nearby chair as he considered what he was asking of his men, what he had ordered from them.

Fools they were, the ones who smirked and jibed and seemed eager to head for Whitecap Bay, strutting about and each declaring he'd be the first to claim a kiss.

Fools they were as well, the ones who scoffed and sneered and boldly declared that nothing within the sea would scare the likes of them away, and certainly not some creatures from an old bedtime story meant to frighten children.

There had been one though, who appeared to have sense enough. Groves had sailed long and far enough to know better, and although the stalwart officer had quickly banished any trace of the emotion from his countenance in front of the crew, Barbossa knew what he'd seen flash behind Groves' eyes for the briefest moment when their destination became clear.

Fear.

Not that he'd fault the man; it merely meant that his Lieutenant Commander had a certain understanding of exactly what lay before them, and that he also understood that Barbossa still would not sway from their heading.

For ahead lay what Edward Teach desperately needed, and likewise in scope, although different in nature, what Barbossa desperately wanted.

Revenge.

Barbossa attempted to wiggle toes missing for some time now, and became irritated once again that despite the lie his leg told him, there were no toes, no foot to obey his command. He'd heard it said that revenge was a dish best served cold, but the hatred he bore for Blackbeard had chilled his desire for revenge as cold as ice and honed it just as sharp.

Not that Groves, or any other who sailed upon the _Providence_ understood what drove their leader so fiercely. Assumption that it was an order from His Majesty himself which motivated Barbossa deluded the crew well enough, but had they any idea of what they truly were about to face, many would wonder if the order of a mere king would be enough to cause a man to face that threat.

It wasn't.

But Barbossa's own reasons were strong enough that he'd take the chance and endanger himself, his crew and his ship. He knew exactly what swam in the wind-driven waves that lay ahead, and he'd already deemed the prize worth the risk. When he considered all for a moment and then asked himself if he was afraid, the answer he gave himself was _yes_.

But not of the mermaids.

Fear of failure was his answer, for exacting his revenge upon Edward Teach was all he had left. After what he had been through and what he had lost over the years, from the moment he took a coin out of the Aztec chest, to the moment his own blade bit again and again in desperation at his own leg while he sought to escape that blackest magic with at least his life, there was no sense in being afraid of something as mundane as Calypso's handmaidens.

Sea creatures they were, but also she-creatures, and any pirate worth his salt knew enough to be wary of females of any sort. In Barbossa's case it applied to women, goddesses, and whatever had silken tresses, full breasts and a lilting laugh. Regardless of what parts lay beneath the waves, mermaids possessed all of the above, and it was that more than their fangs which made them dangerous.

How many of his crew might be about to find that out the hard way, he didn't care to guess.

~o~


End file.
